


Miss You When You're Around

by trashcangimmick



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Bittersweet, Complicated Relationships, Future Fic, Implied/Referenced Addiction, M/M, Mechanic Billy Hargrove, Mental Health Issues, Nostalgia, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, Teacher Will Byers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:01:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22442218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcangimmick/pseuds/trashcangimmick
Summary: If history is doomed to repeat itself, they won’t last. But they’ll also be together until the bitter end.
Relationships: Will Byers/Billy Hargrove
Comments: 18
Kudos: 110





	Miss You When You're Around

The mechanic’s garage on Pine Street looks the same as it did when Will biked past it every day on the way to school in the 80’s. It’s still got the hand-painted wooden sign. _MacKinney’s Auto_. Not like the rest of Hawkins has changed all that much. But at least the signs in store windows have become more modern. There’s a Dollar Tree where the general store used to be. A Walmart that bought out the grocery store. Family Video became a Blockbuster, which then closed and became a coffee shop. The years brought in fast food, chain stores, and drug problems as nearby factories shut down. 

People, for the most part, are stagnant. Anybody who didn’t leave for bigger, brighter places, didn’t grow beyond the narrow box they were assigned at birth. Will is still five foot eight. He wears sensible sweaters and slacks. He teaches science at the Hawkins Middle School. Walking through the same halls every day, he sometimes still feels helpless and twelve years old. 

Forty-eight should be a long distance from prepubescence. But it’s not really. Not when the farthest he’s been from Hawkins was Bloomington. Not when he moved back and lives with his mother. They’re both destined to be lonely without each other. She turned eighty-four in May, cracked a joke about how it’s their opposite year. She’d rather die than go to assisted living and they can’t really afford home care. Will drives her anywhere she needs to go, buys groceries, makes meals and cleans. He’s not sure what he’ll do if she starts to need any serious medical attention. 

His mother says he worries too much. He asks her where he must have got it from. They laugh and then silence follows. 

***

Will’s car is old. It’s rusty, the engine doesn’t want to start when it gets too cold, the brakes squeak, he really should replace it. But somehow, whenever the problems can no longer be ignored, it’s the _wrong time_. He doesn’t have the savings to think about a new car. It’s easier to just fix whatever’s broken and limp along another day. 

Maybe he's just not good with money, like his mother. Maybe it’s just expensive to be poor, and they’ve been poor their whole lives. There are always prescriptions to fill. Leaky roofs, or busted pipes. His mother’s social security payouts are small and medicare doesn’t cover enough. They’re still paying off her hip replacement and Will’s ER visit when bronchitis turned to pneumonia. 

Then there’s the $200 a month that his mother writes on a check and sends to Jonathan, all the way out in Chicago. There have been many arguments about that. Until they were both red in the face. Because Jonathan isn’t spending that money on rent, or trips to rehab, or methadone clinics, like he says. He’s using it to buy heroin. If rehab didn’t stick after the thirteenth time, it’s not gonna stick the fourteenth. If Jonathan really wanted to clean up, he’d move home. But the money is withdrawn from their mother’s bank account. She says she can do what she wants with it. She can’t bear the idea of her son living on the street—even if that’s undoubtedly what’s happening. 

Will ran out of sympathy about fifteen years ago. When Jonathan ‘came home for the holidays’, sold their TV, and spent christmas nodding off in the bathroom with a syringe in clear view on the floor. The Christmas after that, some of their mother’s jewelry went missing and Jonathan was still clearly high at dinner. The next year, when Will caught Jonathan going through his stuff, there was a bit of an _incident._ In that Will called him a worthless addict, just like _Lonnie,_ and Jonathan punched him. Will told him not to come back anymore unless he got clean. He hasn’t been back since. Their mother used to go visit him. But then she got her license suspended and Will refuses to drive her. 

So, the car is old. It’s rusty. The engine takes its sweet time to start after October. The brakes squeak. Once every few months or so, Will ends up at MacKinney’s Auto. Because the car is smoking, or making horrible noises, or there’s a light on the dash that Will’s been pretending not to see for way too long. 

***

“Whatcha got today, Byers?” 

Billy Hargrove, who’s been one of the chief mechanics since about 1991, saunters out of the garage as Will gets out of his car. Will’s heart beats a little too fast, and there’s a twinge of embarrassed heat in his chest, as usual. He’s short anyway, but he always feels smaller around Billy. He’s thin. Pale. Wears his hair clean cut, and has thick glasses perched on his nose. Billy on the other hand. Well. He’s usually in nothing but a pair of grease-strained overalls that show off his thick biceps and hairy chest. There’s usually a cigarette in his mouth or tucked behind his ear. He wears his curly blonde hair a little shaggy, and has a bristly beard that’s streaked with grey. 

The first time Will brought the family car to MacKinney’s Auto, he was sixteen and Billy was freshly twenty. Just as muscular. Hair longer. Fewer tattoos. He had a flat stomach instead of the modest beer belly. But he’s always had those bright blue eyes and that sleazy, slanted smile. He’s always made Will’s heart race and his face feel too warm. 

“I don’t know.” Will shrugs. “It’s making weird sounds.”

“I’d say I oughtta teach you a thing or two about cars so you can get a little more specific. But you might figure out too much with that smarty-pants brain of yours and I don’t wanna go losing my best customer.”

Billy saunters up way too close. There’s some grease flecked on his cheek. Will wants to reach up and rub it away, but he catches himself. 

“How’s Joyce?”

“Fine.”

“She called the shop last week and asked me to explain Sudoku to her. I think she’s lonely.”

Will has no response but to let out a sigh. His mother likes Billy. All women seem to. He’s _charming_. Smarmy. Knows how to talk real sweet and treat you like you’re the only person in the room. He’s just not good at sustaining it. Before too long, the act breaks down. He’s rude, selfish and more than a little mean. Three marriages and quick divorces are enough evidence of that. 

Or maybe it’s that Billy hates women and that fact seeps out through the cracks one way or another. Three marriages and no children. His ex wife Martha used to take Will out for cocktails to complain that Billy only ever wanted to _use the back door._ Because Will has been friends with all of Billy’s ex wives. Because as soon as Will makes a friend, Billy tries to steal her. Because Will is possibly Billy’s only friend, even if they aren’t exactly that. It’s complicated. 

“Y’know. If you wanna see me, you don’t have to keep riding your car so rough you break it. You got my number. I could give ya something else to ride.” Billy winks. 

It’s been about five months. It’s amazing the car’s held out this long. Last time it ended because Billy wouldn’t stop talking about putting Will’s mom in a home somewhere upstate. He even scheduled appointments to tour places and was making arrangements to get her moved. The time before that, Billy kept talking about the two of them moving away to California. He kept showing Will flights and apartment listings no matter how many times Will said _I’m not going anywhere_. Before that, getting blackout drunk and threatening to stab Mike Wheeler at a holiday party. It’s ended so many ways for so many reasons. Will isn’t sure why he bothers to count. 

He also wonders why he bothers to keep ending it. He’s always the one who ends it. Just like he’s always the one who comes back. He doubts it’s just his shitty car that always pulls them together again. Plenty of people in Hawkins have shitty cars. After thirty-five years to build up a reputation of being _bad news,_ plenty of people have also learned better than to give Billy Hargrove the time of day. 

“Shop’s empty.” Billy jerks just head back towards the garage. “Sent Ernest home for the day because it was so slow.”

“OK?”

“Want a beer?”

“Billy…”

“C’mon, sweetheart. Just one beer. Lemme look at your pretty face for a little bit and I might be persuaded to give you a discount.”

Will should say no. Give himself the same speech he always does. About how he deserves better. He just needs to put himself out there and go meet people. He needs to drive to bigger cities and go to bars like he did when he was younger. 

But he’s a little old for the bars, these days. Or rather, he feels a little old, though he undoubtedly wouldn’t be the only middle-aged man downing well drinks. He’s not a cute twink anymore. He’s got creases in his forehead, and crows feet, and his hair isn’t as thick as it used to be. People sometimes seem to sense his neuroticism at twenty paces and turn around. He doesn’t understand the _apps_ that people use. Doesn’t figure there’d be much to find in Hawkins anyway. 

There’s just Billy. Like there’s always been Billy. Like they were gonna get stuck together one way or another since the second time Will drove the family car to MacKinney’s auto parts and lost his virginity bent over the hood of a half-disassembled ford. 

“One beer.” Will rolls his eyes. 

He follows Billy through the garage, into the office. There’s a mini-fridge in the corner by the ancient, rusty filing cabinet. Billy pops the tab on a cold PBR and hands it over. Will tries to sit down in a spare chair by the door, but that doesn’t last long. Will doesn’t even get halfway through the beer before Billy has picked him up and set him on the edge of the desk. They’re kissing and it’s messy as usual. Billy has always been aggressive. Teeth and tongue, and a little too much spit. He still kisses like an overeager teenager. He’s never learned better because he doesn’t care about feedback. Or maybe because Will kind of likes it and doesn’t bother to complain. 

“Missed you, baby.” Billy groans. He’s standing between Will’s spread legs. Cupping his chin, other hand on his ass. He presses even closer. Starts grinding an obvious growing erection against Will’s thigh. 

Billy used to get hard almost instantly. He’d barely need twenty minutes between rounds. Will spent entire afternoons sprawled across the creaky mattress of Billy’s trailer, getting railed six ways from sunday. They’d go until the sheets were ruined, and they were both coming dry, and neither of them had the energy to move. 

“You haven’t called.” Will huffs.

Billy squeezes his ass. Dips down to nip at his neck. “You told me not to.”

“Since when do you listen to anything I say?”

Billy hesitates for a second. Last time Will said, _we’re done and I fucking mean it._ He’d thrown a plate at the wall and it shattered into tiny pink porcelain shards all over the kitchen floor. Will cried while he swept it up, after the front door swung shut and the rumbling engine of Billy’s camaro had long since faded into the distance. Will cried for days after, any time he was alone. 

He shouldn’t be doing this. He’d meant it. He wants to be done with Billy. Wants to erase the long history of a thorny, partially intertwined life. Never fully whole. Never completely separate. 

If Will leaves space between them, the ghosts might crowd in. So he grabs Billy by the hair and kisses him again. It feels good. Feels right. Still lights a fire under Will’s skin in a way that nothing else does. 

He’s a junkie. Just like Jonathan. Just like Lonnie. His fix doesn’t drain away the money. It just breaks his heart. 

Billy unbuckles Will’s belt with a practiced ease. Flicks open the button on the khaki slacks and pulls down the zipper. Will’s a little surprised when Billy drops to his knees. The wet heat of his mouth is too intoxicating to allow further contemplation of the _why._

It’s sloppy as the kisses. Will’s already half hard, Billy’s tongue gets him there fast. Then it’s drool running down Billy’s chin. He pushes himself too far, too fast. Gags on Will’s cock and refuses to pull back. The feverish desperation makes Will dizzy. 

He’s getting embarrassingly close when Billy pulls off him with a wet pop. 

“Can I, baby?” He’s panting. 

Will hasn’t been fucked since the last time they were together. Hasn’t even bothered with a dildo. Most of the time he’s too tired to do anything but get himself off in the shower before bed, if he’s even up to that. 

He doesn’t want to think about how many people Billy might have been with recently. Billy is an animal. He _needs_ with a ravenous urgency. Always wants to come. Always wants to fuck. It’s probably the same drive that makes him drink too much, and smoke too much, and lash out at the world whenever he’s not distracted. 

“Yeah,” Will breathes. Because he’s hard. He’s lonely. 

He misses Billy and he hates himself for it. But your first and only love is a hard thing to shake. 

Billy groans. He stands up and pulls Will into another kiss as he gets Will’s pants all the way off. Will helps by kicking out of his shoes. Billy reaches for the tub of _O'Keeffe's Working Hands_ that perpetually sits on his desk. Just like the old days, before either of them was brave enough to buy real lube. 

There’s lube in Will’s glove compartment that hasn’t been touched since Billy stashed it there. But that’s far away. A little sting sometimes makes it better. 

Billy gets the lid off the tub and dips his fingers in. He’s rubbing against Will’s hole. Maybe Will showered very thoroughly before getting in his car and driving over here. It’s normal to want to look presentable in front of an ex. Or a not ex. Something in between. He likes to be prepared for any possible scenario when it comes to Billy. 

He can’t stifle the moan when two fingers sink into him. It’s a stretch. Billy swirls them in a circle, tugging on the rim, impatient as always. 

“God _damn_ you’re tight.” He breathes. “Been a while?”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t worry. Been a while for me too.”

That’s an oddly vulnerable thing for Billy to admit. If he’s not lying. There’s no real reason for him to lie. Sometimes it seems like he does it compulsively. Just to see if he’ll get away with it. He can never seem to decide if he wants to bend the truth to avoid upsetting someone or to hurt them worse. 

Billy tugs the straps of his overalls down and let’s them fall to pool around his ankles. He’s never bothered with underwear. Will gets a full view of Billy’s hard, thick cock. Billy works in some more lotion and a third finger. Will’s clutching at those bare, broad shoulders. It’s not enough ramp up. Will doesn’t care. He’s wants it bad, doesn’t protest when Billy lines up and sinks into him. It hurts. Makes him dizzy for a second. Billy doesn’t move. He just breathes heavy. He pushes a few things out of the way and guides Will down onto his back. He grabs Will’s thighs, rests Will’s ankles on his shoulders. It’s a familiar position. Billy’s favorite. Will grabs the edge of the desk, and tries to focus on breathing. Relaxing. The sting has lessened to a dull ache. Billy rocks into him slow. It steals Will’s breath away. 

And this is the root of the issue. Or it’s one of them. Nothing else has ever felt like this. He’s never found another reactant that causes the same sort of explosive energy. When Billy’s inside him, it’s just _right._ They’ve barely started and Will’s already tingling all over. High on it. Everywhere Billy touches him becomes an erogenous zone. 

Billy’s panting, staring down at Will with a smile that’s supposed to be smug but mostly comes off as a little manic. Billy picks up speed fast. Will’s moaning. Dick twitching as Billy hits the sweet spot. Billy _takes_. He uses. But he’s gotten so much practice being greedy that he manages to make it good for Will too. 

In Will’s single philosophy class, they talked about Buddhist literature and the concept of a hungry spirit. Something that will latch onto the living and drain their energy. A creature driven purely by emotion and feral need. The victim might never realize why they’re so tired. In fact, they might form some sort of codependent bond with this unseen force until the boundaries between them blur. 

“So fucking perfect, baby,” Billy grunts. “Been thinking about this ass every goddamn day.”

Whether or not it’s factual seems irrelevant. Will likes the image of Billy lying in bed late at night, touching himself to memories of this. Or knowing Billy, he’d be jerking off in this room whenever he’s bored. Will’s given him plenty of material over the years. Riding him in his office chair while the wheels squeaked, letting Billy pin him against the wall, spread him out on the dirty concrete floor, fuck him on this same desk—and the one before it which they broke in their enthusiasm on a particularly rowdy New Year’s Eve. 

“Got so horny I picked up some dumb kid at a bar just because he looked like you. Fucked him face down. Didn’t measure up to the real thing.”

That’s disgusting. It shouldn’t make Will whine and try to rock back against Billy’s thrusts. 

But Will’s always been weak for Billy’s awful dirty talk. It’s gotten a little less obscene over the years. When they were younger—Billy would ramble about wanting to take Will to some underground sex club and watch him get fucked by strangers. He’d talk about making Will take two dicks at once. He’d say he wanted to cut Will with a hunting knife, make him bleed pretty red all over his pale skin. Most of it was just talk. They only went to a club together once and Billy got jealous enough that he almost broke somebody’s nose. They did sometimes mess around with knives, but only Billy holding one against Will’s skin, letting him feel the danger of it without actually cutting him. 

Will’s not really that kinky anyway. His favorite thing has always been when Billy wakes him up in the middle of the night, spooning him, nuzzling his neck. Will likes when it’s soft and lazy. Those are the only times Billy whispers sweet talk that sounds sincere. Not a _Baby, c’mon, you know I love you_ dropped during a fight in an attempt to get out of admitting he’s done something wrong. When they’re in the dark, still sleepy, wrapped around each other, Billy sometimes says _love you to pieces, sweetheart_ and maybe he means it. 

Maybe Will’s just a sucker. 

Billy is moving deep in him, stuffing him full. The speed, the stretch, Will can feel the tension starting to curl inside him. Billy must be able to feel it too. He groans, reaches down to wrap a hand around Will’s dick. 

“Yeah, fuck yeah, come on my cock. Wanna feel you. Shit.”

Will gives in. He lets go. He squeezes down around Billy as the pleasure washes over him. He stops breathing for a moment. Splatters jizz all over his shirt. God, he didn’t even take off his shirt. 

Billy growls. He pumps into Will fast and deep. He squeezes Will’s thighs as he goes still. He doesn’t pull out right away. He just stands there, panting. 

“Well damn, Byers.” He grins. “You want a cigarette? You earned it.”

Will rolls his eyes. He sits up, tries to wipe himself off with some tissues. He accepts the Marlboro 100 that Billy offers. Will’s never been a regular smoker, but he’ll indulge in special occasions. 

They walk out front once they’re presentable. Billy flicks his zippo, lighting Will’s first. They sit on the hood of Will’s car in relative silence. It’s early october. Unseasonably warm out. Will’s fine in just his button-down. 

“It’s too bad we missed summer.” Billy says after exhaling a smooth cloud. They aren’t looking at each other. They’re facing out towards Pine Street. Empty but for the orange and yelllow leaves that occasionally blow by. 

“Hmm?”

“I went back to Bakersfield for a couple weeks. Saw Maxine. Mostly got drunk on the beach. You woulda liked it.”

“You know I’m not getting on an airplane.”

“It’s really not that scary. I don’t get it. You even understand why they stay up in the air. It’s not dangerous.”

“I know it’s not rational. It just makes me nervous. That’s all.” Will flicks the filter, ashing the cigarette. He can’t leave his mother alone for that long. He spends most of his summer doing bullshit professional development stuff. He hates crowds. He gets claustrophobic. There are always so many reasons for him to stay in the same place, with the same people, living out his comfortable routine. 

Deep down, all Will’s ever wanted is stability. The sense that he’s prepared to handle anything that comes up. No major surprises. No speed bumps. Billy is the opposite of that. He’s a reckless force of nature.

“Well, maybe next summer we can drive. You need to see a real beach some time before you kick the bucket.” It’s so casual. Next summer. Assuming they’ll be talking to each other. Assuming they’ll still be in each other’s lives. Based on history—it’s probably a safe bet, but it still feels a bit presumptuous.

“Maybe.” Will shrugs. 

When the cigarette is finished, Will gets his bike out of the back seat. He’s a little sore as he swings his leg over it. 

“Car should be ready in a couple of days. I’ll call you if I find any major issues.” Billy looks like maybe he wants to say something else. But he doesn’t. 

So Will pushes off and coasts down Pine Street. The bike ride home seems longer than it used to. 

***

Will’s phone rings. The caller ID says MacKinney’s auto. He picked up his car last week. Ernest was working, and when Will tried to hand over a credit card he said, with some confusion, _you're marked as paid already. Did I get the bills mixed up? You're Mr. Byers right?_ Part of Will wanted to argue it and try to pay for everything despite the apparent free pass. Then he saw the total—which was over two thousand dollars. Not only did Billy fix the problem, he also put in a new battery, brake pads, and muffler. Will decided his pride wasn’t worth that much. 

Billy tends to be clumsy when he’s trying for romance. It’s either useful but embarrassingly excessive—like the car repairs—or it misses the mark. Billy gives other people things that he would like. He’s still somewhat reminiscent of the teenager who attempt to ply Will with metal records, and AC/DC t-shirts, and dinners at the McDonalds drive-thru. As recently as a few years ago, Billy drove them out to the quarry to sit on a blanket and drink canned champagne on Will’s birthday. Despite the fact that Will has never been a fan of metal, or hamburgers, or cheap alcohol, Billy’s haphazard swings at courtship are kind of charming in their own way. Maybe Will just has no standards. 

The phone keeps ringing. Will had Billy’s personal number blocked for a while after the last break up. He unblocked it. But Billy probably wouldn’t know that. 

School’s over. All the kids have long since left the building. Will’s just sitting at his desk, grading papers, because tonight his mother is at her bridge club until she gets a ride home at 8:30. He doesn’t like going back to an empty house. It makes him think of inevitabilities. Like how there’s a finite amount of time he has left with his mom and it’s getting ever shorter. She was a smoker for years. She’s put off plenty of doctors visits until things became unbearable. Once she walked around on a broken foot for three weeks out of sheer stubbornness. 

It’s a quality Will has inherited. Headstrong is the nice way to put it. _Fucking psycho bitch_ is one of the more colorful descriptions Billy has offered over the years. 

“Hey.” Will keeps his voice level. Pretends he’s still looking down at the worksheet he’s been scratching at with a purple pen. Red makes the kids feel bad. Purple still gets the point across without feeling so harsh. That’s what he’s always hoped, anyway. 

“Heya.” Billy’s voice is soft on the other line. Will hears the faint echo of heavy metal vibrating through worn out speakers. The clanging and background chatter of the shop. 

“What’s up?”

“You babysitting tonight?”

“She’s an octogenarian.” Will sighs. 

“That a yes?”

“No. She’s at game night with her friends.”

“Wanna come by the trailer?”

It’s not the exact same trailer Billy was living in when they first met. But it’s not far down the road. Billy always ends up back in the park, after he’s been away for a while, after a divorce, or after a drunken rage fit that results in him punching a hole through the wall of any nicer living space he manages to procure. Billy has awful credit. Despite the steady, decent job, money always seems to slip through his fingers fast as he gets a hold of it. He used to say he wasn’t planning to live past thirty, so what’s an unpaid bill matter? Since he left that milestone in the rearview mirror and it became a fading dot in the distance, well, he just hasn’t said much besides _don’t answer the landline and if they ask I don’t live here._

“I dunno. Do you still have rats?” Will shifts in his seat. His back hurts. His knees hurt. Everything hurts most of the time. 

“Nope. Zero pest problems. Just the fun kinda roaches.”

“Am I going to walk through the door and be horrified at the mold cultures growing in your sink or bathroom?”

“No. I uh—cleaned. Like bleached things, even.” 

“Did you actually do it or convince some poor girl to be your maid for a day?”

“Jesus. I did it. Why is that so hard to believe?”

Will thinks about all the times he’s had to clean Billy’s various living spaces. About just how bad it gets when Billy is in a Mood and neglects basically everything to do with being a responsible adult. He’ll wear the same clothes days in a row, stop showering, eat nothing but Whoppers, and the beer cans will pile high on the countertops. Clinical Depression or Bi-Polar Disorder would be the likely assessment. _Lazy piece of shit slob_ is one of the less charitable things Will has said over the years. 

“I guess I could stop by.” Will says. Already sliding the papers into a folder to be dealt with later. It’s a Friday, after all. 

“Cool. I’ll see you around seven?”

“Sure.”

Will goes home. He takes a shower. He leaves a note for his mother on the kitchen table, saying he might be back late—or possibly tomorrow morning. She refuses to get a cell phone and wouldn’t know how to use it anyway. She’ll know exactly where he is. The only place he could possibly be. She’s not stupid. She’s always known Will was _different._ When Billy Hargrove started giving him ‘rides to the arcade’ around the same time Will developed a sudden affinity for scarves and turtlenecks, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to put things together. She never said much beyond the standard, stilted talk about using condoms and making sure your partner is being respectful. At first she got visibly uncomfortable whenever she invited Billy into the house. Now if Billy doesn’t show up for holiday dinners, she asks where he is. Since she retired, she occasionally calls him just to talk to somebody. Will knows better than to complain about the embarrassment of that. 

_Oh, I can’t keep track of whether or not you two are having a spat. He’s good at the crossword. Always knows the word I’m looking for._

It could be worse. She’s very accepting. 

He arrives in front of Billy’s trailer at 6:55. Billy’s screen door swings open as soon as Will gets out of the car. Billy’s in one of his awful Hawaiian shirts and a pair of faded jeans. That’s dressing up for him. Putting on a shirt at all when he’s at home is dressing up. 

Will tried not to make too much of an effort. But he went with a more form-fitting button down and khakis. Left the sweater vest behind. Billy waits until Will’s through the door before pulling him into a soft kiss. It doesn’t last long enough to be more than a greeting. 

There’s a spread of chinese food on the rickety wooden table. Billy can’t cook to save his life. But the bag by the floor says _Happy Happy_ , which has always been their go-to when Will doesn’t have the time or energy to make something healthy. There’s a container of Moo Shu duck and extra egg rolls. Just the way Will likes. There’s a bottle of decent cabernet and two honest to god wine glasses. Usually Billy’s got nothing but chipped mugs he stole from IHOP. 

It’s not much but Billy has clearly done his best. So Will is smiling a little when he sits down and starts rolling the filling in his plum-sauce smeared pancakes. Billy opens the wine and pours heavy. He’s eating sweet and sour pork as usual. Old habits. They could be twenty. Thirty. In their early forties. Time is a flat circle when performing old rituals. In moments like this, it’s like they’ve never been apart. 

Will eats about half his food. Billy finishes his container and steals a few of the egg rolls. Another bottle of wine comes out. Billy switches to beer. Will talks about drama at the school, how the secretary is sleeping with the math teacher. Billy talks about having to fire one of the new mechanics for coming in hopped up on speed every day for a week straight. They don’t mention Will’s mother, or any of Billy’s ex wives. 

They end up on the ratty couch, curled against each other, watching Thursday Night Smackdown on Billy’s DVR. Will doesn’t care much about wrestling. But sometimes if he watches enough of it with Billy he gets sucked into the stupid story lines. It’s basically a soap opera with a bunch of half-naked bodybuilders. He can kind of see the appeal. 

It’s not long before Billy’s pulling Will into his lap. Will straddles his thick thighs and kisses him. They grab at each other, greedy as ever. Billy’s still the most attractive man Will has ever met. Even now, with rough, wrinkling skin and a soft body. 

“Stay with me?” Billy murmurs. Purposefully vague. Maybe the night. Maybe much longer. Whatever Will might agree to. 

“Wasn’t planning on going anywhere.” Will smiles. Leaving things equally open to interpretation. 

If history is doomed to repeat itself, they won’t last. But they’ll also be together until the bitter end. Wrapped around each other in arcing loops. People don’t change and it won’t be different. Somehow, the good times are usually worth it anyway. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Baby Blue Sedan' by Modest Mouse.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](https://trashcangimmick.tumblr.com/).


End file.
